


Never [In My Wildest Dreams]

by non_tiembo_mala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Frottage, M/M, Schmoop, Set in S11, Wincest - Freeform, drunk boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 15:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7720270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/pseuds/non_tiembo_mala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean take a well-deserved day for themselves. They get a little drunk, one thing leads to another, and it turns out that - just maybe - everything they ever needed has been been in front of them all along.</p><p>(I'm terrible at summaries, sorry folks)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never [In My Wildest Dreams]

**Author's Note:**

> So this came out of nowhere?? I'm _supposed_ to be working on a (likely giant) fic for spn_cinema and I woke up with Dean and Rhonda Hurley in my head?? I sat down thinking I was going to write something about that and then... I don't even know. Needless to say, neither Rhonda nor her pink panties feature in this fic and I have not made any progress on my cinema fic today but eh, what can you do? Whatever the muse tells you, apparently.
> 
> Title from Imagine Dragon's _I Bet My Life_ which will always be an anthem for the Winchester brothers to me. 
> 
> Unbeta'd.

“Ya know what,” Dean chuckles. “I think I’m a little buzzed.”

 

He’s just stood up to get another bottle of whiskey and Sam looks up at him with unmasked surprise. Sam is feeling it, of course he is. They’d decided to take the day for themselves and they’ve been sprawled across Dean’s bed doing a Lord of the Rings marathon (extended editions, of course), eating junk food, drinking beer (until beer turned to whiskey between the Two Towers and Return of the King) and Sam was buzzed _before_ they switched to hard liquor. He’s never been able to keep pace with his brother as far as drinking is concerned, but he’s always been good at hiding how hard it hits him. It’s well into the night now and they’re only halfway through the last film and Dean has to steady himself with a hand on the headboard when he stands up.

 

“I didn’t think you could even get drunk anymore?” Sam huffs, a small, disbelieving laugh, even as his own cheeks are flushed and warm from their drinking. He’s a little giddy. He used to love when Dean got drunk; his big brother would get silly and loose like he never does, and he’d get affectionate and handsy and Sam has always lived for that - his brother’s hands on him, sharing a space that’s not meant, really, for two, like when they were kids and Sam could cling to Dean freely without a second thought.

 

“Heh, I didn’t think so either,” Dean grins down at him, positively beaming, and Sam aches for this, these carefree moments that seem so few and far between these days, when his brother is just being himself.

 

“We should probably keep at it then,” Dean adds before Sam has a chance, wagging his eyebrows at his little brother before he turns and makes his way out of the room in search of a new bottle.

 

Sam fidgets where he sits propped up against the headboard while he waits for Dean to come back, swishing the remainder of his whiskey and watching it swirl in the glass, lit up only by the light from Dean’s lamp and the glow from the TV where it’s paused. He feels heavy with the drink already and knows he should slow down, already way more drunk than his brother is, if Dean is just feeling the buzz now. It’s an old instinct of Sam’s, a kind of self-preservation; it’s one thing to let Dean get drunk - Sam _wants_ him to get drunk, wants to let Dean lean on him, fall into his space, take anything he wants from him - but Sam has always been nervous to let himself go too far, because if Dean lets him into his space, if it’s the other way around, Sam’s not sure he’ll ever be able to take himself out of it.

 

He’s pretty sure they’ve been dancing around this their whole lives, walking some fine, invisible line, and Sam is definitely sure that he’s had enough to drink because thinking about it now, feeling that ache in his chest and that _need_ that’s only for his brother, he’s not sure he can remember what he’s been waiting for. He knows, logically, that there’s some reason - there has to be a reason? - but then Dean is standing in the doorway with a full bottle in hand and the way he’s looking at him, still grinning, is so suggestive that Sam’s stomach flip-flops and and his skin feels too tight.

 

“Drink up, Sammy.” Dean gestures to what’s left in Sam’s glass and he saunters back in and practically throws himself back on the bed, jostling Sam as he does.

 

“Dude!” He sputters out, and he’s about to say more, but then Dean is pressed all the way up against his side from shoulder to hip as he settles, his legs out and crossed in front of him but right alongside Sam’s the whole way. The words dry up and get caught in his throat and Sam hopes he doesn’t look as panicked as he feels when he turns to look at his brother.

 

Dean smiles up at him looking absolutely smug, a flush in cheeks that Sam hasn’t seen in a long, long time, and when he licks his lips Sam is _positive_ he’s doing it on purpose. Sam swallows hard.

 

“Problem, Sammy?” Dean is practically leering at him, and shoulder-to-shoulder like they are, Dean is leaning into his space so Sam can practically taste the whiskey on his breath. Sam has to clear his throat before he answers, trying to distract from the way he has to shift because his jeans are suddenly a little less comfortable than they were before.

 

“No,” he answers and his voice is rougher than he meant it to be. He clears his throat and tries again, even as he watches the near-gleeful look that takes over Dean’s face. “No. Just- pour us our drinks and press play, asshole.”

 

Dean’s face breaks out into a full on smile and he pours his own whiskey first while Sam downs the rest of his. Dean is generous with the portions and Sam tries not to worry but Dean spies his wide-eyes all the same.

 

“I haven’t been drunk in forever, man. Just relax. Drink with me, okay? Let’s make it a game. Every time they do a close up of the ring or Frodo makes one of his constipated faces take a drink. Yeah?”

 

Sam thinks this is a horrible idea. If he’s keeping pace with Dean this way he’s going to get wrecked and he already feels like he’s in dangerous territory, but then Dean’s eyes are pleading as he shimmies into place beside him and Sam can tell his brother doesn’t just want this, with everything going on maybe he even needs it, and that’s enough for Sam. Against his better judgement and absolutely under the influence of both their day of drinking and the incredible heat seeping into his body everywhere Dean is touching him, Sam agrees.

 

“Yeah, alright. We’re gonna regret this, you know. We’re not kids anymore,” Sam points out even as he clinks his glass with Dean’s outstretched one and takes another sip. Dean rolls his eyes like Sam isn’t right and makes a dismissive gesture with his hand before pressing play.

 

It isn’t long until buzzed turns into full-on drunk for both of them. Frodo makes a lot of faces and the ring kind of features a lot, so. By the time the movie is over, the volume has been turned down and they’ve slid down the bed so they’re lying face to face with scant few inches between them, their legs tangled up with each other and Dean’s socked toes are absentmindedly stroking the back of Sam’s calf in a way that is completely distracting. They haven’t been paying much attention to the movie for the last little while, instead giggling drunkenly and talking about nothing. The bottle of whiskey is a lot emptier than it should be where it sits on the nightstand behind Dean, and their glasses are empty and abandoned beside it.

 

Sam can’t even remember what they’re laughing about but his brother is so beautiful like this, laughing so easily and completely unable to stop, those crinkles at his eyes so deep and Sam can’t believe they’ve really lived so long that Dean even has them the way that he does. When he finally stops laughing and pants, catching his breath, Dean reaches over and wipes at the wet corner of his eye. They both go still and quiet, their eyes locked, and Dean moves to brush Sam’s hair out of the way where it’s fallen into his face with the force of his laughter, pushing his hand through it and tucking it back. Sam can’t help but chase the feeling, leaning into Dean’s hand like a cat, and Dean’s grinning again.

 

“Feel good, Sammy?” His voice is low and teasing, but he does it again even before Sam has a chance to answer.

 

“Yeah,” Sam answers, somewhat breathless but too drunk to care. His brother’s fingers are combing through his hair and tugging at it just a little and it feels better than anything he’s felt in a long time.

 

“Hmm,” Dean hums and keeps petting at him, scooching a little closer, and Sam’s hand finds its way to Dean’s waist, grabbing at the hem of his t-shirt and playing with it like he used to when he was a kid and they were tucked up in the back seat of the Impala trying to fall asleep. “When was the last time anyone made you feel good, Sammy?”

 

Sam’s eyes flash up to his brother’s and Dean’s gaze is dark, full of focus, and completely on him. It makes Sam’s stomach flutter and he feels his fingers tremble a little where they’re twisting the fabric of Dean’s shirt.

 

“Uh, um,” Sam stutters out, biting at his lip and still dizzyingly distracted by Dean’s hand in his hair and his feet and the way his own knuckles are brushing Dean’s bare stomach. “P-piper. You remember?”

 

Dean nods and hums again. “Yeah, I remember, Sammy. Pretty girl, made the whole car smell good. She treat you right, little brother, do all the things you like?”

 

Sam can barely keep his eyes open for how good he feels under his brother’s hands and Dean is right in his space. They’re practically nose-to-nose and Sam is so hard he’s feeling light-headed. Piper was great, she really had been good for him, but she wasn’t what he really wanted. No one ever is, really, though sometimes, people - men - come close. The whiskey and the rough quality of Dean’s voice make Sam brave, so he wants to say as much, tell Dean this thing he’s never told him before. He’s not sure when his brother started talking about what makes him feel good but he sounds invested in the topic in a way that makes it difficult for Sam to answer; when he tries to speak it comes out as more of a whimper.

 

Dean echos the sound with a sharp inhale and tilts his forehead against Sam’s, his hand resting at the back of his neck and still playing in Sam’s hair.

 

“God, tell me, Sammy. What’d she do?” He asks for it in the damp space between them, where they’re sharing breath and Sam is panting as he starts to shake his head. Dean’s eyebrows go up and he leans away to look at Sam’s face and Sam can tell he’s suddenly sobered up somewhat, stricken that he’s maybe crossed a line Sam didn’t want him to. Sam tugs at his shirt to pull him back and squirms to get closer.

 

“Nmhm. Not her,” Sam mumbles as Dean relaxes back into their space, his eyes on Sam’s face. Sam licks his lips and makes himself look at his brother. “She didn’t- the things I like- I, um- it’s been even longer. Longer since- since I was with a- a guy.”

 

He makes himself look at Dean so he can see his face, try to read his brother’s response. Dean’s face is still but his hand on Sam’s neck tightens and when he breathes out it’s like he was holding his breath.

 

“What d’you like, Sammy? What d’you want that she couldn’t give you, huh?” Dean’s back in his space again and when he nudges Sam’s nose with his own Sam feels his whole body shake. He’s relieved that Dean has just taken it in like it was nothing and it makes him let go. He knew the drinking game was a terrible idea but with the way Dean is touching him, talking to him with that voice, encouraging him, he wishes they’d done it sooner.

 

“I like, um, suck- sucking c-cock,” he’s still stuttering and he has to close his eyes as he answers; he’s not brave enough to look Dean in the eye for this. His hips have started moving on their own accord, little stutters like the words off his tongue, but Dean either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care.

 

“Like to have something in my mouth when I come,” he manages to get out though he isn’t sure how, and his hands have abandoned Dean’s shirt to slide under it and lay flat against Dean’s stomach. He can feel it against his palms when Dean groans.

 

“Fuck, Sammy,” he curses and Sam’s too far gone now, couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He nuzzles against Dean’s face, and their lips are so close - he feels the pull of them like he’s falling into orbit; it's only a matter of time now.

 

“I like f-feeling full,” Sam continues, completely derailed now by the way his words are undoing his big brother. Dean is clutching at him now, his hand is buried in Sam’s hair like he’s using him as an anchor and Sam tugs at his brother’s waist, tries to get their hips closer together.

 

“Christ,” Dean hisses against his mouth and Sam wants to taste it; every molecule in his body is crying out to eliminate this last bit of space between them, cross this final line. “You like to get fucked, Sammy?”

 

Dean tugs his hair as he asks, his voice strained like he’s hurting something fierce, and the sound and feel of it makes Sam whine.

 

“I think so,” Sam finally whispers, feeling small tucked up this close to Dean in a way hasn’t felt in a long time. His brother reigns it in enough let go of his neck and tilt his chin up to make him look at him, confused.

 

“You _think_ so?” He echos, waiting for Sam to answer, and Sam knows when he does it will give him away. If there’s a scrap of whatever they were before to be salvaged, there won't be after this.

 

“Well, I mean, I do, but... Never- I never…” Sam starts but he can’t make himself say the rest. There still, apparently, isn’t enough alcohol in his system to give him the courage to tell Dean that he could never let anyone in, because they weren’t Dean.

 

His brother’s thumb is scorching where it’s still resting under his chin and Dean is quiet long enough that Sam makes himself meet Dean’s eyes again. His brother is looking at him in a way he’s never seen before and it stops his breath, makes something rattle like it's come loose in his chest. Dean’s _want_ is clear on his face but his eyes and expression are soft and fond, so fond, and Sam still can’t breathe. He's giving Sam the answer to every question he's ever not asked without saying a word. This is really it. This is about to happen. He never thought- never let himself even hope-

 

“Tell me, Sammy. Tell me. I need you to say it. Say it, baby boy, please.” Dean is begging him and Sam chokes on a sob or a laugh, maybe both. The tension and fear bleeds out of him so fast he’s giddy. Dean’s thumb is stroking his face and the touch is so tender, so reverent, that Sam’s eyes are a little watery and his voice is a little wet when he finally finds it again to do as Dean asked.

 

“Never got that far, Dean,” he whispers and lets his hands grab onto Dean’s hips, his pinkies edging under the top of Dean’s jeans. “Wanted- wanted it to be you.”

 

“Dammit, Sam. Fuck-” Dean barely breathes out the whole word before he’s pressed his lips to his brother’s. Sam whimpers into it, opening his mouth for his brother’s tongue and Dean is pushing him onto his back and on top of him, pressing him into the mattress before he has a chance to register that it’s happening.

 

“I know, Sammy, I know. I gotcha, baby, not going anywhere, not gonna leave you, not ever,” Dean is kissing the words into his neck and it takes Sam a minute to realize he’s been babbling since Dean rolled him over and got their dicks rubbing together, working his hips to give them friction that’s reduced Sam to a writhing mess underneath him. He hears himself now and he’s begging, _please Dean_ , and _don’t stop_ , and _need you, Dean, need you so much, always needed you,_ and _please, please you can’t take this back_.

 

“Not gonna take it back, baby boy, been holding back so long, I don’t even know why, Sam,” Dean kisses him deeply, his tongue tracing the roof of his mouth, and he sucks on Sam’s bottom lip as he pulls back to look Sam in the eye.

 

“I don’t even know why.” He says it again like a revelation, like now that this is happening, not a single thing before has made sense. Sam knows that's what he's thinking because he's thinking it, too. He never realized _how_ incomplete he was until Dean kissed him and finally made him whole. It’s like he’s come home for the first time in his life.

 

Dean is propped up above him, braced by a hand on either side of Sam’s head, his knees on either side of Sam’s, and their hips pressed together where they’re hard and hot and aching, trapped between them so close they can feel each other twitch even through the layers of denim that keep them apart. Dean lets out a small, breathy laugh, surprised and sounding a little delirious even, and the next thing they know they’re both laughing and it’s borderline hysterical, like they’ve been holding it in way too long; the relief is overwhelming.

 

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean finally gets out when he can breathe again, and when he kisses Sam, Sam arches into it, trying to get closer.

 

“Please,” Sam begs, quiet but sure when Dean breaks their kiss, still trembling but not scared anymore. He presses his knees against the inside of Dean’s legs, telling him - begging him - without saying anything.

 

“God yes,” Dean barely breathes as he moves to sit back and give Sam the space he needs. He grabs the bottom of his shirt and pulls it off, tossing it somewhere on the floor and when he looks back at him Sam is trying to unbutton his shirt with fingers that shake.

 

“Easy, baby,” Dean whispers and reaches for Sam’s hands. He takes them to his mouth and kisses Sam’s knuckles, slow and easy like they’ve done this a million times before, like they have all the time in the world. Sam watches the way Dean’s swollen lips look as they press against his skin and laughs a little, embarrassed for the way this - Dean - is making him come apart. It’s too much and not enough all at once, everything he’s ever wanted that he never thought he’d have, and he’s not sure he’ll survive this but he knows it won’t matter, because if this is how Dean loves him - it’s all Sam could ever need.

 

Dean puts his hands down gently and goes to undo his buttons for him. It makes him feel like a child - Dean is always doing that, things that make Sam feel like that kid brother Dean was always taking care of - and he feels like he should be ashamed for the way it makes him burn up but he isn’t, not now, not with Dean saying yes to this, to them, and making it all okay, just like that.

 

Sam manages to undo Dean’s pants while Dean undoes his, and then Dean stands to slide them off and Sam shimmies out of his shirt. Dean is naked at the foot of the bed, his cock hard and flushed and the light catches in the precome leaking at the tip. The sight makes Sam’s mouth water even as he flushes from his nipples to the tips of his ears, and he bites his lip as he looks over his brother in a way he's never been allowed before. Dean looks smug, proud maybe, and certainly unashamed. He’s big, maybe not as long as Sam is but thicker, and Sam is desperate to get his hands or mouth on him, whines at the thought of Dean pushing inside him, splitting him open.

 

Dean just grins wider and chuckles at the state of his little brother, blotchy red deep across his chest and up his neck, into his cheeks, looking completely debauched and fucking hungry for his dick. He can feel himself twitch under Sam’s heated gaze where it sweeps up and down his body, where Dean is letting him look. Sam’s chest is heaving and his hands are fisting in the sheets by the time Dean leans forward to hook his fingers into the waist of Sam’s pants and boxers, and he waits for Sam to nod at him before he tugs them off his brother’s never-ending legs.

 

Sam lets his knees fall apart when they’re free and sight of him has Dean groaning and grabbing the base of his dick. Sam is long and curved a little, dripping onto the flat of his belly where his dick has settled, the angry red of it a staggering contrast to the smooth tan skin behind it. Dean’s never seen anything more beautiful than his baby brother laid out in front of him like this, an offering and a gift; there’s no way he ever did anything to deserve it but he’s at the mercy of it now, completely gone and unable to do anything but give Sam everything he would ever ask of him.

 

He crawls up the bed and hovers over his brother again, mindful when he drops his hips down so that they line up together, and they both close their eyes and moan at the sensation, finally skin-to-skin.

 

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Sammy,” Dean says when they open their eyes again, and despite the fact that their dicks are touching Sam still manages to look bashful at Dean’s words. Dean can’t help but smile at him, his brother who’s beaten the Devil - twice - saved the world and Dean more times that Dean can count, strong, capable and deadly, and yet here, with Dean, sweet and breaking apart and fucking _shy_.

 

Sam starts to look anxious as Dean smiles down at him, the drawn out silence obviously unnerving him.

 

“Relax, kiddo.” He leans forward and kisses him quick. “Just- never let myself look at you like this before. Now that I am, I can’t stop.”

 

Sam keens under him when Dean kisses him again, starts moving his hips and Dean does the same. They move against each other with an easy rhythm, like they’ve done this dance before and already know all the steps. It’s as easy as anything, they way they come together now, and Dean can’t help but think that when they found out they were soulmates, maybe this is what that meant that whole time. He wants to laugh at how obtuse they’ve been but he’s too busy tasting the inside of his brother’s mouth, getting to know every curve and edge of every tooth, reaching for all the places that are new that he wants to make his. He’s got one hand buried in Sam’s hair and when he gives it a tug his brother moans and bucks his hips into him, jumping like he’s been shocked and his hands scrabble for purchase on Dean’s back before his nails dig in.

 

“ _Dean_ ,” he breathes out and Dean is already starting to catalogue all the things he can do that will make his brother say his name like that.

 

“Like that, Sammy?” Dean says into his ear, dragging his teeth over the shell of it. Sam shivers and nods, his blunt nails still cutting into Dean’s shoulder blades and his breath hitching with every back-and-forth of Dean’s hips against his.

 

“Like- like everything you do, Dean. Always have.”

 

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean drops his forehead to his brothers and lets their lips brush together, feels Sam’s whiskey breath warm on his face.

 

Sam’s eyelashes tickle Dean’s cheek as they flutter open and shut, torn between the overwhelming pleasure of it all and the need to see his brother like this.

 

When this started - when Sam told him he’d been waiting - Dean wanted to give Sam the fucking of his life, but just making out with his brother has brought him right to the edge and he knows there’s no way he’ll last for that now, for tonight. Instead, he kisses Sam one more time and then sits back on his heels. He grabs Sam by the hips and tugs him up his thighs so his ass is in Dean’s lap and he tries to grab both their dicks with one hand. There’s too much of them until Sam gets with it and then their fingers are laced together and they’re jacking off into their combined fist. It’s so good, Dean is so close, and he can guess from the small, near-constant sounds coming from his brother that Sam is close, too. Sam’s eyes are closed and his head is thrashing on the pillow as he desperately chants out Dean’s name, his free hand clutching at Dean’s hip. Dean quickly sucks his finger into his mouth and, while Sam’s still not looking, slips his hand under Sam’s leg and lets his spit-slick finger tease under Sam’s balls.

 

Sam starts, his eyes flying open as he gasps, and Dean can feel his dick twitch against him, against his hand.

 

“Yeah, Sammy, that’s it. C’mon, baby,” he pushes his finger further down and Sam shudders when he finds his hole.

 

“ _Dean!_ ” Sam cries out as Dean pets at him, teasing, and Dean can barely stand how good it sounds. His finger is barely inside his brother’s body when Sam cries out again and comes, spilling wet over their hands. The way Sam’s body seizes around the tip of his finger and the way his own dick is wet and coated with his brother’s come is too much; Dean follows his brother over the edge with a shout, adding to the mess between them, and their hands slow as it gets to be too much.

 

They’re both panting when they finally let go, and Dean makes an apologetic face when he tries to gently take his finger back from the hot clutch of Sam’s body. When he’s free he leans over the bed for his discarded t-shirt and uses it to clean them off. Sam lays there and watches him with heavy-lidded eyes, his body still flush and his chest still heaving as his heart rate returns to normal. His hair is everywhere, completely disheveled and stuck to his face in places where it’s been caught by the sweat that clings to Sam everywhere, pooled in the hollow of his throat and making him seem almost illuminated where the low light from the lamp catches in it. Dean is stuck again by how beautiful his little brother is and how lucky he is to get to see him like this after a lifetime of wanting. He’s not sure when he turned into such a sap but he knows it’s somehow Sam’s fault, not that he plans on admitting that to him in order to make that accusation aloud.

 

Instead, he crawls back up the bed, taking the blanket with him, and kisses Sam lazily as he pulls the covers up around them. Sam hums into the kiss and smooths his hands up and down Dean’s back, feeling the dents he left with his nails and flushing for it, evidence of what Dean does to him. Dean breaks the kiss and moves over so he can settle behind Sam and curl up around his little brother, back-to-chest, his arm around Sam’s slim waist and his lips resting at the nape of his neck.

 

Sam sighs, sounding content, as they settle, and Dean hugs him a little tighter as Sam puts his hand over Dean’s on his stomach and threads their fingers together.

 

“How’d it take us so long to get here, Sammy?” Dean mumbles against his skin, already starting to drift off, heavy with sleep, the alcohol in his blood, and the afterglow.

 

Sam makes a small sound that resembles a wordless _I don’t know_ while he shrugs within the confines of Dean’s embrace, pressing his hips back at the same time so he’s right in Dean’s lap again and as close as he can be.

 

“I’m thinkin’ I shoulda’ gotten you drunk a lot sooner,” Sam mutters sleepily and it makes Dean bark out a laugh. He can tell Sam is smiling even if he can’t see it.

 

“Yeah, Sam. You’re probably right,” Dean concedes around his laughter, pressing his lips to a kiss on Sam’s back. “Bitch.”

 

“Jerk,” Sam shoots back automatically, and Dean has never felt so still before, so settled and at ease inside. Everything is changed between them now and yet everything is the same. He’s less surprised than he thought; he supposes it makes sense, the way this has always been there even if they never gave in to it. All the things he worried about, all the ways he thought he’d fuck it up - fuck them up - and for nothing. This was all they ever needed. It figures.

 

In the comfortable quiet that follows, Dean gets a little lost in his thoughts and the way it feels to be curled up around Sam like he used to do when they were kids, thinks how he's missed even just this closeness for so long; he never wants to let Sam go.

 

“Love you, De.” Dean thought Sam had fallen asleep but evidently not. His voice is small and quiet, and Dean can tell by the way he said it he’s wanted to say it a for a very long time. Not that he’s ever needed to. He says it now and after everything that just happened Dean can tell it’s really a question, still double-checking, and while Dean hurts to think Sam doesn't already know, he understands how his brother feels because how can something this good be real? How can this be for them?

 

Dean’s chest tightens at the words, aching and full like only Sam could ever make it.

 

“I know, Sammy. Always known,” he gives Sam a little squeeze. “Love you too, kiddo. Always have.”

 

He can feel the way Sam’s breath catches and then, when he sighs again, the way he relaxes completely against him, letting it all go, giving in.

 

Nothing has ever felt more right in Dean’s entire life, tomorrow's inevitable hangovers be damned.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading. Comments and kudos are love ❤


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